


Assassination

by Unicoranglais



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, WHY CAN'T I WRITE NICE THINGS, angst?? A N G S T
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unicoranglais/pseuds/Unicoranglais
Summary: Four. He waited for her to dodge.Five. She didn’t.[A different version of case 2. Spoilers for the motive!]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Context for au: Imagine if the screen motives of the second case were handed out at random, to help ‘spread the love'.
> 
> This might someday become a proper story, but for now it's... whatever the hell this is. Just felt like playing around with some stuff, in particular the trial sequence.
> 
> 1 comment = 1 salvaged feel

Saihara’s screen would not turn on.

He tapped it. Pressed the little button on the side to try again. Shook it, then felt a bit silly. A yellow light blinked on and off, but otherwise, nothing. Looked like he’d copped the defective one; the only person staring back at him was his own ugly mug, and he couldn’t say he liked himself very much.

It was a relief, in a sense. He’d a horrible feeling about this whole ‘loved ones’ business, something about awful secrets being exposed somehow and _more_ people dropping dead. If everyone else’s screens were the same, then Saihara had nothing to worry about. At the very least, he could feasibly stay out of whatever mess the screens might cause – not that he was a coward or anything, but he just didn’t _feel_ like participating in the killing game. He didn’t _feel_ like trying to come to terms with one of his classmates trying to kill another one, or even worse, trying to kill him.

Typical. The one detective in the place was as awful at grieving as he was at detective work.

...Still, whoever this thing was meant for would be pretty upset. Actually, a _lot_ upset.  Maybe even upset enough to go and– well, Saihara let out a long–suffering sigh and rose from his bed, wincing at the creak of the springs. They reminded him of something he didn’t want to think about.

(How Kaede had creaked, swinging by her neck, _I won’t let that happen again_. Saihara’s face twisted and he stumbled, almost dropped the screen, the world blurred, he sprinted out into the hallway and slammed the door, don’t think about it don’tthinkaboutitdon’t _think–_ )

He breathed, refocused, ignored how he was standing in a hallway with this broken screen that reflected his tears and mirrored his distress. Maybe the thing was just… flat. He could perhaps get Kiibo to charge it, or nick some sort of battery from somewhere. That was probably it; he took careful steps forwards. Turned it over in his hands, looking for the battery case.

And saw something written there that offered a very different explanation:

HOSHI RYOUMA

“Well, hello,” breathed Ouma over his shoulder, and Saihara could feel the grin, pressing into the side of his neck as the little monster crept nearer. “Now, this is something _interesting…_ What would happen if it got back to its owner, I wonder–? _”_

Two steps ahead of everyone, as usual. But Ouma was right, so _painfully_ right – oh god, Hoshi wouldn’t take it well and might not survive his depression being backed up. He might… jesus, he totally would–!

And his mind went back to the corpse of Thursday.  A world–class pianist, booed; strangled into eventual silence.

A long rope, and a creaking corpse.

Saihara tried to slam the screen into the ground, the wall, just _kill it kill it kill it_. But Ouma’s hands grabbed his, clawed at the blasted, bastard thing, because Ouma always wanted trouble and would stop at nothing to get his drama fix, and Saihara couldn’t let him have the screen but also couldn’t bring himself to care. Hoshi might be hanging from the ceiling _right now_ , maybe even in front of a piano, maybe his loved one was Kaede too because everyone loved Kaede, but now she was gone and Saihara was so, so sorry, and his grip slipped and he screamed and ran and screamed and ran and

_––––––_

flickered.

One second, Hoshi was crying in front of Toujo. The next, he was saving the nation, because Toujo was right, so, so _right_ – Maki was dangerous, she was wrong, she took people’s lives for money, she’d even lied about her talent, you couldn’t just let some _scumbag assassin_ kill a _prime minister._ She needed to die, for Toujo to live and lead the world. And as if all that wasn’t enough of a reason to kill her, she’d probably served the mafia at some point.

Sure, the maid had lied about her talent as well, but she was a good person, and she said nice things to Hoshi. Said she’d help him find his screen, if he helped her first. Said only he could do this for her, with his amazing ability. Said she and Maki had gotten each other’s screens, that she couldn’t possibly take the other girl on if they went head–to–head. Said he had a chance. Said if he was so willing to lay down his life for everyone, he might as well do it for a greater cause. He lapped it up; it appealed perfectly to his own vigilante nature, with just enough emotion to sway him. Only a slight hesitation between the ball being in his hand and the swing of the racket, and then

back in front of Toujo, dropping to one knees and holding his breath. Waiting to be praised and loved for what he’d done. Waiting for his life to be worth something. Waiting to know he was a superhero, and she  _cared_ , and it wasn't just implied in the space between her smile and her eyes.

One. Toujo stood in the doorway of the kitchen, but he could see Maki’s back around her, if he leaned out a little bit.

Two. Miu was laughing raucously; it covered the noise of impending doom.

Three. The ball flew through the air, approaching from stage left. His heart sped up, and it seemed to slow.

Four. He waited for her to dodge. To be who she was supposed to be.

Five. She didn’t.

Toujo's plan was perfect; even with her tremendous talent, Maki couldn't exactly dodge when she was sitting down and contemplating the meaning of life in a bowl of noodles. Or hey, maybe she'd wanted to die as much as Hoshi did, being a killer and all, and Toujou had realised it. Toujou really was helping everyone. What a selfless, wonderful person she was - and she cared about him. _Him-!_ Only implied, but now came the confirmation, now came the keep he had earned. Hoshi looked away from the kill, back towards her, and felt something like hope. 

Felt it die a moment later.

No gratitude. No joy. Not even a pat on the head. In fact, Toujo wasn’t even _there-_

She’d stepped aside

all the way to the right

washing her hands of invisible blood in the sink

leaving Hoshi completely visible in the doorway. Racket in hand.

_(murderer!)_

...Ah, so that's why Toujou made him use a bright red one; it stuck out easily against his uniform. He held it proudly, pretended he wanted this, though his insides were churning and he wasn't sure  _what_ he wanted anymore, had no idea what he deserved or how much he was allowed to have.

Maki was all that was left between him and pointing fingers, and she didn't last for long. She fell sideways, twisted, _cracked_  and lay sprawled on her face, or at least what was left of it. The ball dropped onto the table with a heavy thunk. It was over, and now the aftermath began.

First came the screaming. Then Saihara rushed in, flustered; something about the motives, one of them was really bad and- stared at Hoshi, opened his mouth, stared at Maki instead, and Hoshi didn’t even bother trying to run. So what if they knew he was a killer? Toujo was a much better person than he was, and she'd planned the whole thing. He saw her plan in its entirety now; she would have the others come to an incorrect verdict, and they would  _all_ lay down their lives for the cause. 

And Hoshi would die, too. But he was okay with that. Which was probably why Toujou had decided on him being her accomplice in the first place. 

“Yeah, I did it”, he said, just in case they’d had any doubts, and searched his jacket for a candy cigarette, while Toujou spun from the sink in shock, gasped when she saw the body, rushed over and checked for a pulse, looked back at him with disbelief and disgust. She put on a good show, got some sympathetic clucking and pushed the unspoken accusation straight at Hoshi's face. 

("R-remember what he said? About being a murderer? I... I fear he  _might_ mean...")

And he tried his best not to care about how she clearly didn't care for him.

_––––––_

"Upupupu... Well, normally I'd execute the person who did it! But in this case Hoshi-kun has no confidence at all... maybe even no free will! Imagine that, only with him… I dunno, six foot tall. Sex on legs. Doing whatever you wanted, all night long… gives me the chills, just thinking about it! I can hardly _bear_ it!"

The bear paused here, its stare boring into Hoshi's until he – god, his face was hot. He couldn’t look at it anymore. Couldn’t even look at the floor, just close his eyes and wait for a blissful death that never came. If he hadn't been chained to the damn stool, he would have stepped down. It wasn't much, but it would have been so much to avoid the horrible looks he was getting from all parties involved in this wretched trial.

"…'sides, he confessed _before_ the freaking trial," it finished with a yawn. _"Beaaaaaarrrrriiiiing!”_

"W-well, guess I _tried",_ Hoshi mumbled. Oh god, everyone was totally looking at him like it was all his fault, weren't they? _Weren't they?_   Finally, they were all realizing how awful he really was. At long last, he was getting the hatred he had craved so much, the recognition-!

But in the same breath, he realized something truly horrible – no, the above was truly horrible. This was far, far worse: _He didn't want to revel in their reactions._ He didn't want this, didn't want to believe it was happening - had never really wanted it! His hands fumbled with his hat, pulling it over his eyes as much as he could manage. He didn’t even want to look.

"Hoshi-kun." The voice reached him, after what felt like an eternity of shame and general wretchedness. A little pitying, a little hopeful, and a lot higher than his own, not that _that_ said much about the owner. Everyone here sounded like children in comparison to him, and he guessed in terms of worldly experience, they were. They'd never broken someone's head open with a tennis ball in the middle of the ni-

"Can you tell us who made you do it?"

Hoshi wanted to help them out, so badly; wanted to help Saihara and his stupid puppy dog eyes. But... There was something more he wanted, more than anything, and he knew it was only on offer if he... _if he..._

Hoshi didn't meet Toujo's eyes - it would be a giveaway - but something went between them, something in the twitch of a lip and a great shudder from his side of affairs. "I can't tell y'guys, nah", he said, careful to look at each one in turn, or at least bob his head shamefully in a few directions. "It'd be goin’ gainst Monokuma's rules, if he wants the trial to go more than two minutes. An’..."

_And I want you to fail. Because I'll die with you all if I do._

And dying with everyone else was even better than dying alone and hated, wasn’t it? Or was it? Hoshi didn’t know anymore, but at the very least, he knew he wanted to die. Knew he _should_ have died in the electric chair. Knew he had already died, in a tennis court eons ago. "...I dunno who ordered me, anyway. Got a phone call, I guess."

Silence. But not the pitying sort, this time. Just confused.

"Hoshi-kun, there's no phones-"

Saihara looked too hurt for Hoshi to allow him to finish. God, was he really trying to _like_ him? Was he actually serious about earlier-? Did mister goody–two–shoes police dude seriously want to be frie– Whatever, he interrupted. "Kid. Just leave me alone, I'm not squealing."

And that should have been the end of things, but they were in a room full of other people, all of whom had opinions on the matter. There was yelling, whispering, unhappy beeping from the resident robot. Hoshi found himself asked again and again, in a hundred different colourful ways, _did you really do it?,_ and had to hide his face under his hat all over again.

The court that sentenced him to death row had nothing on this; that had been some dusty room, with old men scowling at him, and he couldn't say he had particularly cared what they thought. But this - not that the little murderer cared about anyone, ever, but it hurt. He blamed it on the pitch of their voices, or at least took it as an excuse to put his hands over his ears and tell himself it was that.

"I did it! Not sayin' it again! _I did it, all right?!?_ Quit doubting me, I'm a damn murderer! Just _EXECUTE_ me already!"

And Hoshi squeezed his eyes shut, and waited, and didn’t even care that he was crying in front of everyone, because he’d be dead and gone soon enough. But all he got was Monokuma’s dumb laugh, and the embarrassment of crying in front of the others; felt their pity even through misty double–vision.

"Why don't you tell him what's on his little screen, Saihara-chaaaan? I bet that would make him say who did it, and then we can all go back to bed."

And in amongst the commotion slunk Ouma's words - soft, casual, yet clear enough to hurt.  Hoshi didn't quite know what was meant by them, but Saihara flinched as though hit, and Hoshi felt something cold and hard deep in his throat. What _was_ on that screen? Who cared about him? Why was Saihara refusing to tell him? Someone he didn’t _approve_ of?

"Be a bad, bad cop", purred Ouma. “Or I could do a routine with you, if you want! I bet there’s a whip here somewhere…”

But Saihara only slammed his hand on his desk, because he was always the good guy. (And he winced, Hoshi noted. Not even because of the impact - it wasn't much - but because of the mere violence implicit in hitting something. How pure of him. How _good._ How Hoshi hated it.)

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

Ouma purred, tilted his head, stroked his cheek in that annoying way he always did. "Maybe I'll do it myself, if this drags on too long."

"You'll break him."

As if a jaded murderer was some sort of ceramic doll. Hoshi fumed under his hat, but his mind was in absolute shambles. Trying to find something to say while these dumb tweenies discussed his fate was like trying to get a needle, in a haystack, submerged in a giant tub of syrup, _with alligators in it._

“D–don’t need your pity”, he tried. “Stop it.” But that only made Hoshi _sob_ , a deep, ugly thing low in his chest. He’d done it, he’d killed Maki. They all knew the damn rules.

So why couldn’t he just _die already?_

He knew the answer, of course. The memories of a hundred identical murders marched through his head – Hoshi lived at the end of every busted skull, because he couldn’t just step _off_ the rooftop he’d made his shot from. Because he couldn’t just _let go_ of… of whatever he had. Something. It was something, wasn’t it? He didn’t remember why he kept going, just that he _had_. For years. Money? A sick family member? There had to be something… something…

“It’s nobody, isn’t it? Th–the person who cares _._ Bet it is.”

Hoshi didn’t know why he blurted that out, in all honesty. Was it a… joke? A snide remark? A denial?

But – no. He was right, correct, accurate, _bang on the money_ with that remark, because Saihara’s face was so, so very honest, even with both hands over his mouth and his forehead beaded with sweat. Ouma didn’t even need to say a word, though he did anyway – something about how Hoshi had just gone and ruined the surprise for everyone. Go him, right guys? Right?

Silence.

Then Ryouma Hoshi opened his mouth, and let out not a scream, but a whimper.

_Go him._


End file.
